Short Cut

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It was supposed to be a shortcut. Just a stretch of abandoned farmland between the road and our new house. Five minutes of walking, tops. Less if you didn’t stop to look at the broken scarecrows or rusted irrigation pipes sticking out of the ground like bones. My sister said it felt wrong from the first step. I said she was being dramatic. I wish I had listened.

The grass was tall. Up to our shoulders in some places. Dry and brittle, but it whispered like it was alive. There were paths carved through it—too clean to be wind, too narrow for farm equipment. More like someone or something had been walking in circles.

“Can we not go this way? It feels weird”

Clara asked.

“You’re twelve. Everything feels weird,”

I told her. That was the last time she laughed that day. About halfway through, we saw the first one.

A scarecrow, still standing somehow. Except it wasn’t like the ones in cartoons. No smile. No straw hat. Just a burlap sack over a human-shaped frame. Arms tied to a splintered cross. No face. But the sack was wet at the bottom, like something inside had been breathing. We walked faster. The grass got taller. Another scarecrow stood to the left—closer this time. Same faceless sack. Same dripping stains. Clara clutched my hand.

“Why do they all face the same way?”

I didn’t know how to answer. Then she said,

“Are they watching something?”

We ran after that. The path curved, even though it was supposed to go straight. The scarecrows multiplied—now on both sides. Some stood. Some hung. One was upside down, like it had been nailed there after struggling. They didn’t move, but the grass around their feet was flattened—trampled over and over.

“Is this a prank?”

Clara yelled. But no one was laughing. Then we heard it. A dry rustling. Not wind. Not footsteps. Breathing. Low and slow. Like something asleep, just past the grass. I told Clara not to look. She did anyway. And screamed. I didn’t see it at first. Just a flicker. A shift. Like the tall grass had grown a spine and stood upright. Then I saw eyes. Not glowing. Just… open. Too many of them. Watching from just above the blades. Tall. Wrong. It whispered, not with words—but with intent. And the scarecrows started to turn.

We ran. No more questions. Just flight. But the path wasn’t there anymore. We were in a circle. Clara fell. I yanked her up. We ran again—between scarecrows, over rusted tools, through torn pieces of clothing that hadn’t been there before. And then we saw the house. The road. We broke through the grass and stumbled onto the pavement, gasping.

When I looked back, the field was empty. No scarecrows. No whispering. Just tall grass swaying in the wind like it had never moved at all. That was three days ago. Clara hasn’t spoken since. She draws now. Circles. And tall figures. And eyes. This morning, I found a straw in her bed. Tied in the shape of a cross. I burned it. But the next one was already under her pillow.

And tonight, I can hear breathing. Not hers. Not mine. But something just outside the window. Waiting. Behind the tall grass.